The Final Threshold
by La Prima
Summary: Will Erik finally be free of Christine and his past?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1-UPDATED

* * *

 _Sweden_

 _1890_

Christine stared out the frosted carriage window at the dark countryside. You couldn't see anything for miles. As she pulled up the heavy fur lined blanket, she found her mind wandering beyond the warm confines of her newest patron's carriage and the night's events. Her life these days looked nothing like she had expected or hoped. She had chosen to live apart from Raoul for the last two years traveling from one European capital to another. One the surface she was living a life that most sopranos would have died for. Sold out engagements. Nights spent drinking champagne among princes and the elite. Vases full of roses and lavish hotel suites paid for by patrons. She didn't lack for anything. Yet, the core of her life was in pieces. The love that was once between she and Raoul was gone. It died so quickly and silently that she didn't even realize it. One night, she was seated across their dining room table from him watching as his lit a cigar and laughed with his brother. She had spent years doing exactly what he wanted by taking on less engagements and remaining at their country home in the Loire valley. Agreeing to send their daughter Delphine away to a convent school a two days ride away, at her mother-in-law's insistence. Her life was no longer hers, and it scared her. That night, she packed her own trunk and had their coachman drive her to Paris. From there, she started visiting one patron, and then another. Two years later, she was once again doing what she was born to do. But, she was doing it all alone.

Her thoughts guided her somewhere else, as they often did. Back to the past and to that painful and shocking moment when she saw Erik. The sight of him standing there sent her to her emotional knees. Even then, years after it happened, she still felt that knot of wanting and regret in her chest. If only she hadn't betrayed him. If only she hadn't left him behind for Raoul and all his false promises. Perhaps they would still be together at the Opéra Populaire, singing and creating music together. Then she wouldn't be alone, and he wouldn't be thousands of miles away and in love with someone else. She found herself gritting her teeth at the thought of him and Meg. Yes, she loved Meg and had wanted so much for them to be close as the once were. But, she could never quite get to a place of peace with the reality that Meg had him. That he had chosen to love someone else and turn her away. A part of her felt ashamed of her envy and resentment. The better part of herself spoke.

 _After all Erik went through, doesn't he deserve love?_

 _Don't you want him to be happy?_

Yes, of course he did. He deserved all of that. But, she couldn't accept that he wouldn't have been happier with her. He may have convinced himself that he hated her and that he had replaced her with Meg, but she would never accept it. Ever. As the lights of Stockholm came into view, she found herself feeling as bitterly cold as the night outside.

 _He would have been happier with me. I know it..._

* * *

 _Maison Azelée_

 _Louisiana_

The mail sat in a neat stack on her writing desk. She hurried to file through it as Erik walked in behind her to undress for bed. Nothing but the same invitations, to the same holiday affairs with the same faces. Meg rolled her eyes at one particular invitation from a Madame LaLonde. The young, raven haired beauty was the city's wealthiest and most attractive widow. Every single man in New Orleans society, and even a few of the married ones, followed her around like a pack of hungry dogs from one social engagement to the next. But, she wanted none of them. Her heavy lidded hazel eyes were set on no one else, but Erik. Ever since his performance in Don Giovanni, they found themselves on her guest list. At the few parties they agreed to attend, she was always there at Erik's side, touching his arm, batting her eyes with obvious intent. This made her decision to scale back their social engagements very simple. Erik didn't seemed bothered by it. As Meg scanned the thick black calligraphy on the card, she noticed a small handwritten note in the bottom corner.

 _It's been far too long Monsieur De Laval. Please come. Georgine_

"How many parties have we been invited to that we won't attend," Erik asked, pulling off his boots.

"Your ardent admirer Madame LaLonde desires _your_ presence at her annual New Year's eve fete," Meg replied in a tone as bland as the white invitation in her hand. Going to the fire in the fireplace, she flicked it into the fire. Watching the flames lick up the paper and the note gave her a small degree of satisfaction.

The warmth of Erik's hands on her waist, turned her away from the heat of the fire. Moving his hands to the back of her dress, she worked on the silk ascot around his neck.

"You seemed distracted this evening," He whispered slipping a finger through the lacing that ran down the back of the cream lace dress.

"It's nothing," she whispered thickly, tossing the ascot onto the floor. "Having Lucia coming home and hosting both Mama and Labreau for the holidays is taking a lot more work than I would like."

"As much as I love having Lucia home, I will miss the way things have been. Just us, alone."

Meg smiled, letting her dress slip to her feet. "I'll miss our mid day meetings here."

He lifted her off the floor and playfully dropped her onto the bed. "We can always find somewhere else. The stables. The guest house. I'm willing to consider anything."

Staring up at him, she felt herself both filled with love. How was it possible to still want and love someone after so many years? Reaching up she gently touched his face, letting her fingers trail softly over the soft white leather of his mask. "I love you. I love you so much that I couldn't imagine a life without you in it."

He leaned down smiling, his face so close to hers. "You'll never be rid of me, I promise."

"Do you swear," she whispered.

"I swear," he whispered back, and smiled.

As he settled on top of her, his face buried in her hair Meg found her thoughts wandering somewhere she didn't expect. It was a quiet longing that had been following her around for some time. One that she tried to ignore, but never seemed to disappear entirely. As he slipped his hand between her thighs, she found it working her way from her head and out of her mouth.

"I want to have another baby," she whispered into his ear.

He stopped, the surprise lighting up his eyes as he stared down at her. "Are you sure?"

"I've been thinking about it for quite a long time. I want to try again, while I'm still able to have children. I know you've been trying to be careful ever since we lost Angelique. I wasn't sure if you even wanted another child." She searched his face, looking for some sign that he was open to it.

He leaned down and kissed her. "I do. I only wanted to be careful when we were together because losing Angelique was so hard on you. I couldn't take seeing you hurt that way again."

She put a finger to his lips. "No more talking about the past." Working on the buttons of his trouser, she breathed,"I'm ready now."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

 _February_

 _Stockholm_

It was a relief to be alone. Pulling the fur lined coat around her, Christine paused on the steps of the Royal Opera House, deeply inhaling the icy air. Leaving the long hours of rehearsals and demands behind her, she walked into the park that ran along side it. The space was mostly abandoned that cold afternoon. Most people were likely huddling around the fire indoors, giving the city an almost desolate feel. But, she preferred it that way. After days spent within the opera house or her hotel suite, she was dying to get out and explore Stockholm. As she took one street, and then another, she thought of her father and everything he told her about it. The grand and stately city was where he began his life as a musician. And it was everything he promised her it would be. Why had it taken so long for her to come? Hearing the distant echo of church bells tolling the hour, she realized that she had wandered a little too far. She would be late returning for the rest of rehearsal. Usually, she didn't shy away from the label of diva, but she prided herself on being a diva who was never late. Turning on her red heels, she traced her way back to the park, cutting through the heart of it to save time. As she crossed through, something caught her eye.

It was the way he walked with elegant and purposeful strides. The same thick head of dark hair, straight nose and generous mouth. She found herself holding her breath as he walked past her.

 _Erik..._

For a moment she thought she was hallucinating. This was the face that she dreamed was underneath the mask. The face that she had expected to reveal when she pulled his mask from his face that morning. Unmarked and cream perfection. How could this be real? How could _he_ be real?

 _I must be losing my mind..._

She shut her eyes for a moment, certain that he wouldn't be there when she opened them again. But when she did, she saw the strong broad plane of his back as he continued on in the opposite direction. Hooked in, she began following him at a distance. Turning corners and crossing more streets, she continued trailing behind him until he veered off to the blue door of a grey stone building. She watched as he pulled a key from the pocket of his heavy grey coat, and let himself in. Minutes passed by as she watched the windows on the second floor go from dark to light. She remained there until reality pushed it's way back in. As she turned to leave, she made a private vow to herself that she would be back.

* * *

 _New Orleans_

"Stop! Everyone, stop for a moment! I have some news!"

An audible groan rippled through the corps as Labreau strode on stage, holding a letter high like a flag. Madame Giry rolled her eyes and with a jerk of her head, sent the corps to the barre.

"This better be important," she snapped.

He grinned down at his wife. "Oh, but it is _mon amour_. Meg, this is for you."

Meg left the barre, brow cocked in curiosity. "What is it?"

He cleared his throat in theatrical fashion, as he began to read.

 _Madame De Laval,_

 _After seeing your performance of Giselle for President Harrison last year, I became an immediate admirer. As Ambassador to Sweden, I have become well acquainted with their royal highnesses, Crown Prince Gustaf and his lovely wife Crown Princess Viktoria. Both are great patrons of the arts, and were impressed by what I and others shared of your superior talent. Every year, their Royal Highnesses host a gala to celebrate the arts. Only a small number of artists from around the world are invited to perform. It is my great pleasure to extend an invitation from their Royal Highnesses to perform for them at this annual gala, which is to be held on the evening of March 15. It would be my great honor to host you and your charming mother, should you decide to accept this prestigious invitation. I hope that you will._

 _Best Regards,_

 _Richard Randolph Hamilton, United States Ambassador To Sweden_

Madame Giry's initial displeasure melted away, as she grasped Meg's hand. "You have to accept."

Meg sank onto a nearby chair. "I never expected this."

"I told you there would be more invitations after performing for Harrison," Labreau laughed, giving her shoulder a fatherly squeeze. "I will go to my office and write that you accept the invitation!"

"Wait," Meg said. "I didn't say that I accepted."

Both Labreau and her mother stared down at her, lips pinched and eyes narrowed. "Why not?"

"Labreau, would you give Mama and I a moment?"

Tossing a confused look at her, he left shaking his head. Madame Giry stared down at her with a determination that Meg knew all too well.

"Meg, I'm going to be as honest with you as I have ever been. You are well past 30. In fact, you are at the sunset of your career."

"Yes, I'm old in the eyes of some," Meg shot back. "I understand that. But_."

"Invitations to dance for royalty are something only reserved for the best in our world. You are an aging dancer who isn't the prima ballerina of a renound corps."

"Mama listen_."

"This invitation is an unexpected privilege."

"Mama I_."

"There is no reason on earth why you should turn it down!"

"Mama!"

Madame stopped, and gave an impatient sigh. "What?"

Starring up at her mother, she felt like she was 5 years old again and begging to be held. Taking a deep breath, she whispered, "Erik and I are trying to have another baby."

Madame Giry raised her brows. "Is that your compelling reason for wanting to turn down this invitation? You're too busy rolling around in bed with him to dance for royalty?"

Meg rolled her eyes and stood up. "I suppose I shouldn't have expected you to be happy about this." She headed off stage with Madame Giry on her heels.

"It's not that I wouldn't welcome another grandchild! It's that I don't want you to turn down this opportunity."

"Why is it that you treat my marriage as less important than everything else?"

"I have nothing against it!"

"Liar," Meg shot back as they progressed through backstage. "Any time you and Labreau come to me with some grand invitation and I object, you have some snide comment to make about Erik. Or about how I have given up so much to be here with him!"

"You have given up too much," Madame Giry cried.

"I don't feel that way!"

"You are one of the hardest working and most talented dancers I have ever known! And I'm not saying that because I'm your mother. You know I don't flatter anyone. But, it's true. You could have left here long ago and danced in any Corps anywhere."

"I'm happy here," Meg argued. "Why can't you just accept that?"

"You could have been a prima ballerina. I know it and Erik knows it too!"

"I've had enough of this discussion. I'm not going to Stockholm! That's my final decision!" Meg turned her back and hurried into her dressing room, slamming the door behind her.

"I suppose I should throw the letter I just wrote away."

Madame Giry turned to find Labreau and several curious pairs of eyes behind her. Sucking in her breath, she tried to recover her dignity. "Hold onto it."

"Where are you going" Labreau asked as she walked by him.

"I think I'm going to take a short trip to Maison Azelée. I'll be home later."

* * *

 _Stockholm_

Christine quickly shut the dressing room door on the back of her last well wisher. Her dresser hurried over, chatting with her in broken French as she helped her out of costume. Off with the red silk gown of Bellini's Norma, and into her white lace robe. As she wiped the red lip rouge away, her dresser went on about the evening's performance. It was, by all accounts, one of her best. It ended as most had with a dressing room filled with roses and an hour's worth of forced glad handing with psychofants and puffed up aristocrats. As much as she loved performing, she would never love that. Now, all she wanted was to go back to her hotel suite and sleep well into the next day. A soft knock came. Her dresser turned to her, pale brows lifted in silent question.

"It's probably Oscar. Let him in." As she wiped the rest of the heavy stage makeup away, she expected to see the white mustached face of the her father's old friend, and director of the opéra Oscar Von Rosen. He was the reason why she finally decided to come to Stockholm. Since her arrival, he and his wife Klara had become like family. Without looking up, she greeted him. "I hope you weren't too disappointed in me. I only hit that high C for a laugh."

"Not at all disappointed."

The voice wasn't Oscar's. When she looked up, it was the face of her stranger in the reflection of the mirror. Her mouth fell open as she turned to face him. In return he gave her an awkward but polite smile.

"I apologize for disturbing you. I was looking for Oscar as well, and thought it would be a chance to congratulate you on the performance." He bowed from the waist, and began backing away. "Please excuse me."

"Wait," Christine said, hurrying up from her chair. "Your name?"

He stopped, inclining his head. "Max Von Fersen."

She extended her hand. "Christine Daée."

Smiling, he kissed it. "I know, and so does everyone else."

Looking up at him brought her back several years to the moment she first saw Erik standing in the mirror. All the need and longing cutting through her again so keenly, she could barely take it. For a moment she felt stuck between the memory and the man standing in front of her. Wanting to touch him and wanting him to touch her. She quickly turned away and gestured to the chaise behind her. "Please, stay and wait for Oscar. He should be here soon. Every night he insists on accompanying me back to my hotel. He's a bit overprotective."  
"It sounds like Oscar," he laughed, taking a seat.

She returned to her vanity, and finished wiping away what was left of her makeup with a nervous hand. It was hard to believe that he was really there. For days she had taken what little time she had and returned to that house, walking up and down that street hoping for a glimpse of him. Now, it seemed like life had decided to have pity and drop him into her lap. Their eyes met again in her mirror as she nervously tried to make polite talk.

"Do you come to the opéra often?"

"Every season since I was 12," he replied. "My father loved the opéra and was determined to make me love it too."

"With my father it was the same," she said, mindlessly rearranging things around on her vanity. "He was a musician from a small village north of here."

"Oscar told me that he knew him well."

The door opened on cue as Oscar strode in, hat in hand. He smiled in surprise at the sight of Max. "So you were able to come!"

They shook hands. "I was determined to be here."

"This is a nice occasion," Oscar said. "The children of two of my greatest friends meeting. We should have a late supper together."

"I can't," Max said. "I have more work to do in the morning, and I'm giving a lecture at the university."

"Christine, I'm sure he didn't tell you that he is the most sought after sculptor in Sweden and the continent."

"Impressive," Christine said, smiling. "I would love to see your work."

"You will find it all over the city," Oscar said. "The King and the crown prince are his greatest patrons."

Max dropped his eyes, smile strained. "There are better artists."

"Be as proud of your work as your father was." Oscar made it sound more like an order than a request.

"I really would love to see your work," Christine pressed. "Perhaps I could pay a visit to your studio?"

"You are always welcome," Max said. His eyes lingered on her face until Oscar broke in.

"It's getting late. I'm sure Christine is ready to change and return to her hotel."

"Of course," Max said, his smile apologetic as their eyes connected once more. How long will you be with us in Stockholm?"

"I have no plans to leave just yet. Perhaps Oscar can find something else to keep me here." They shared a laugh.

"Did you hear that Oscar," Max said. "Mademoiselle Daée and all of Stockholm are relying on you to keep her here."

"And I will," Oscar assured them.

Max turned back to Christine. "Good. It's been a pleasure meeting you. I hope we will meet again soon."

A smile rolled across Christine's lips. "We will Monsieur. Very soon."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 _Maison Azelée_

 _Louisiana_

"I need to speak with you!"

Emitting a tired sigh, Erik turned from the piano to greet Madame Giry. The fact that she was alone revealed what kind of visit this would be. Erik smiled dourly. "Let me guess. Meg denied you something, and now you're here to pour blame on me? Go ahead Antoinette. I'm waiting to hear what terrible sin you think I've committed."

The face she gave him looked like that of a man ready to go to war. "You continue to hold Meg back! Every time she receives any opportunity to perform outside this God frosaken swamp land, she puts up a fight! Why? Because of you!"

Taking a long, deep breath, he waded carefully into the fray. "Have you ever considered that Meg's decisions are her own?"

"Nonsense!"

"She's a grown woman Antoinette!"

"I know my daughter! I raised her and loved her and understand her better than you ever could!"

"I doubt that's entirely the case," Erik laughed. "Let's try to be reasonable and step onto neutral ground, shall we? We can both agree that we know Meg better than other people. We also know that she is stubborn and does exactly what she wants."

"Yes," Anotinette sighed wearily. "All true! But, you discount your influence on her! Before she came here and married you, she never would have turned down an invitation like this!"

"What invitation? You have yet to inform me."

"An invitation to dance for the Crown Prince and Princess of Sweden! The most prestigious invitation she has ever, and likely will ever receive!"

Erik raised a brow. "That is quite an invitation."

"Yes," Antoinette cried. "The kind that she's been working her entire life for! And why does she want to turn it down? Because she's too wrapped in you and wanting another child!"

"Antoinette, I never had any desire to keep Meg from dancing. In fact, I would want her to accept this invitation."

"Really?" That one word dripped with doubt and suspicion.

"Yes. And I do realize that by marrying me, she has lost out on the chance to perform with more prestigious corps elsewhere. I have no desire to keep her from going to Stockholm, despite what you choose to believe."

"Then you will have no objection to persuading her to change her mind!"

"I didn't agree to act as your emissary," he countered.

Antoinette stepped to him, eyes narrowed. "You know if she doesn't accept it that she will always regret it. This is the kind of opportunity that won't come again. If you love her as much as you claim, then you won't sit back and allow it to pass her by. Remember how much she has given up for you."

"There is no guarantee that she will change her mind," he warned.

Giving him a sly parting smile, she began her exit. "Oh Erik. We both know you have the power to convince Meg to do anything. _Au revoir_."

* * *

Meg raised her head from the back of the copper tub as Erik walked into their bedroom. Giving him a tired smile, she held out her hand. "What kept you?"

"Writing a few notes. Trying to turn them into something," he said, kneeling down to take her hand. "I noticed that you weren't yourself at dinner. Anything troubling you?"

Meg shut her eyes. "The day was too long. Mama was in one of her moods. Making demands. Treating me as if I were still a child."

"What happened this time," he asked.

Meg sighed, staring down into the milky bath water. "Labreau received a letter from the American Ambassador to Sweden. I met him briefly while I was in Washington last year. He extended an invitation to me from the Crown Prince of Sweden and his wife. They hold a gala every year, and want me to perform."

Erik feigned a look of innocent surprise. "Impressive."

"If I accepted, I would have had to leave within the week in order to be there on March 15th."

"So you turned it down?"

"Yes. But, I doubt Labreau has sent along my regrets yet."

"Meg, you know that this is the kind of invitation that not all dancers receive."

"It's not that important," she murmured tracing his arm with a damp fingertip. "Now that we're trying for another baby, I don't want to be away from you that long."

"Meg," he sighed stroking her cheek. "It's not as if you would be gone forever. And of course, I would be here waiting when you returned."

She went quiet. He knew that she only did that when she was torn. If there was ever a moment to change her mind, it was then.

"I know you want this," he whispered. "You can't tell me that the thought of dancing for royalty was never a dream of yours."

She looked him in the eye. "No, I can't say that."

" _Mon amour_ , there is no reason for you to turn this down."

"If you would have been there today and heard the way Mama spoke to me you would understand. She just assumed that I would go along with whatever she wanted! Ever since Mexico, I have been adamant about not being away from you and Lucia for too long."

He laid a finger to her lips. "I don't want you to allow what happened then to keep you from dancing wherever you want. If you told me that you wanted to leave tomorrow to dance in Tangiers, I would follow. "

"Do you mean that?" He saw the beginning of a smile.

"Of course."

Meg smiled fully, leaning into him. "Then I will accept the invitation. But, only if you come with me."

He sat back on his heels. "That wouldn't be the best idea."

"You just said you would follow me anywhere," she pressed.

He closed his eyes and sighed. "I didn't mean it literally."

"It doesn't matter," she said, standing up. "You said it and I have every right to hold you to it."

He rose to meet her. "You know I love you and would do anything for you. But, returning to Europe is something that I never planned on."

"It's been years," she whispered, laying her hands on his chest. "No one outside Paris is looking for you anymore. They all believe you died. You don't have to run from that anymore."

"It's a risk," he said.

"I was a risk years ago, but not anymore." She slipped her arms around his neck. "Please say yes."

"Antoinette would be better suited to travel with you."

She brought her lips to his ear. "But, I want you with me. Just think of it. Us on a ship, locked in a luxurious stateroom with no where to go. No rehearsals. No one to bother us."

"That is something I wouldn't usually turn down," he breathed. "But the trouble comes when we leave the ship."

"We made it across the ocean to here before, and we would again." She took his face in her hands. "It's time for you to let the past be the past."

He tried to look away. "I don't know_."

"Please don't say no to me. Please."

He knew, despite his fears that what she said was likely true. The phantom was, after so many years, nothing but a long forgotten headline. Something that perhaps a few people remembered, or mentioned, when passing the old opéra house. For so long he had lived with his own guilt and self loathing about what had happened that long ago night. But, as the years passed, he had started to feel a distancing between himself and the phantom. When he looked back, it was as if he were thinking of a stranger and not himself. Why continue allowing who he no longer was to haunt him? Everyone else had moved on. Perhaps it was time that he finally allowed himself to move on, for good.

He looked fully into her face and allowed himself to smile. "So when do we leave?"

* * *

 _Stockholm_

The lit windows told her that he was there. Walking up to his door, she felt the way she did before stepping into the stage lights. That heady yet confusing mix of desire and fear. She wanted to see him, yet she wanted to run. What if this ended the way everything else in her life had so far, in disillusionment or rejection? The memory of the way he looked at her the night before coaxed her out of her fear. She had to know him. Even if things ended the way she feared, she needed to know him. Giving the door two hard knocks, she stood back, silently hoping that for once her fears had lied.

The front door opened faster than she expected, with him smiling broadly. Her lips parted, but she couldn't manage anything but a soft, "Hello."

"Christine." He opened the door wider and stepped aside. "Come in!"

She gave him a nervous smile as he shut the door behind them. "I hope you don't mind me stopping by."

"Of course not." She caught the slightest hint of confusion in his face, though he continued to smile. "How did you know where I lived?"

The lie came easily. "A member of the company told me. It seems everyone knows you. So, show me your work."

"My studio is upstairs," he said. "I'm afraid there isn't much here to see at the moment. A few sketches and some smaller models." He began walking up the narrow staircase as she followed. "I do most of my work at my father's country house just outside the city."

At the head of the stairs was an open loft with heavy dark beams overhead and a gallery of sketches tacked to the walls. He stood aside and allowed her to browse at each one. Oscar wasn't exaggerating when he proclaimed him a talent. Each sketch was divine in it's details of each subject; fierce, yet regal lions, lean and muscular gods, and a collection of voluptuous goddesses propped up on pillows. She glanced over her shoulder at him, unable to resist the opportunity to tease.

"The woman in these sketches? Is she a friend?"

He smiled. "She was the king's favorite for a time. He wanted statues of her all over his private gardens until she fell in love with someone else."

"And now she's disappeared?"

"Ran away with the man she chose to Paris I was told."

She turned back to the study the last sketch, feeling the sharp jab of envy. A young woman running away to Paris with the man she loved. A much better circumstance that being an older woman running away from Paris and the wasted years spent there. He came to stand beside her, his nearness sending her self pity into hiding for the moment.

"I hope you don't mind me showing up this way," she said. For the first time, she noticed the striking blue of his eyes. It was the only thing about him that didn't remind her of Erik.

"Not at all. In fact, I have been thinking about our meeting."

"I wished we could have had more time to talk."

"Well now that you're here we can make up for that. I was about to leave and have dinner at a restaurant nearby. The food is adequate. Good company would improve it, though."

Smiling, she set a gloved hand on the arm he offered. "Invitation accepted."

* * *

 _The SS Triton_

 _March 11th_

 _The Baltic Sea_

When the ships passengers left the decks for the night, Erik and Meg emerged from behind the locked doors of their stateroom. Hands knotted together, they enjoyed the privacy of the dark as they strolled around the deck. Special instructions were left with the crew before they arrived that no one was to disturb Monsieur and Madame De Laval, and that all meals were to be left outside their door. As they had on their first crossing, they observed their own hours, sleeping through the day and staying awake all night. As they stared out at the black waters, Meg leaned back against him. "Are you sorry that you came with me?"

"Not at all, he said, circling his arms around her waist.

She inhaled the cold air. "It's hard not to think about our first crossing and how much things have changed."

"I haven't really thought about it at all," he said, dropping his mouth closer to her ear. "You haven't given me much time for quiet reflection."

"True," she laughed softly. "It's been more like the honeymoon we never took."

"Honey. Moon," he said, playing with the word. "Americans have such strange words for certain things."

"A charming and polite word for weeks of uninterrupted sex," she giggled.

"For some people, I suppose," he said, staring out at the water. Despite their very enjoyable crossing, he found himself growing more introspective the closer they got to the end of their journey. It wasn't just his fear of being out of the comfortable and protective bubble of their home. There was something more. A piece of his past connected to the cold land they were floating ever closer to.

"Something is troubling you," Meg said.

"No," he lied, trying to smile. "I'm just thinking ahead to our arrival."

She turned to him, hands on his chest, eyes knowing. "You think after all this time that I can't read you. I know all your moods. I can tell when you're hiding something."

Looking to the sky, he exhaled. "It's just something from my past. Nothing that really matters now."

"Apparently, it still does matter to you. So, why not tell me about it?"

He drew her closer, wrapping his coat around them. "The last thing I wanted to do was drag the past into now." He paused, his hold on her tightening as he pushed himself to speak. "My father was from Stockholm."

Regret moved across Meg's face. " _Mon amour_ , I'm sorry. I didn't even think about that at all. It's been so long since we spoke about it."

"It's alright," he whispered. "It's not as if I would know him if I encountered him on the street. Or that I would even care to know him."

She touched his face. "Have you ever thought that possibly he never knew that your mother died? He may have assumed that she raised you and that you were safe."

"Perhaps." The word was bitter in his mouth. Yes, perhaps he never knew what happened to them. He simply left them behind in Paris, and continued his life in Stockholm, unbothered by the past and its complications. How nice to live that way. Free to leave a situation with clean hands and no conscience.

Those thoughts swirled around in his head until he felt sick of them. He looked down at Meg and silently willed them to return to that dark space in the back of his mind. The last thing he wanted was for this stranger to cause anymore disturbances in his life. If that man could walk away and forget, then he would do the same. Meg turned her face up to him, seeking some assurance that all was well. He smiled down at her as if there wasn't a troubled thought in his head. He wouldn't allow anyone or anything to ruin their time. Nothing and no one was more important than that or her.

"Come, let's go in." Together, they turned their backs on the cold night, and went back to the warmth of their bed.


	4. Chapter 4

FT Chapter 4

 _Stockholm_

 _March 12th_

"Welcome to Stockholm, Madame! I'm Elias Von Berglund, Ambassador Hamilton's attaché." He took off his bowler and gave them an exaggerated bow. Their by-proxy host looked barely out of his teens, glacially handsome and dressed like a fashion plate.

Meg smiled wearily in return. "Thank you for meeting us here Monsieur Von Berglund. Let me introduce my husband, Monsieur De Laval."

Von Berglund took his first full look at Erik, his pale eyes going straight to his mask then quickly back to Meg. "Of course. Welcome to both of you. Ambassador Hamilton has honored me with the task of making certain that your visit is a pleasant one. Anything you require, do ask. Please follow me."

Meg and Erik exchanged tired smiles as they followed their appointed host to the carriage. Inside were plush velvet seats and a heavy silk and ermine lined blanket. A large satin lined wicker basket with bottle of wine, cheese, and sweets was also waiting.

Once their luggage was loaded, they made a fast exit out of the city. Von Berglund sat across from them, his eyes skipping around Erik as he cleared his throat.

"I trust your crossing was comfortable," he asked, still looking at Meg.

"Yes," Meg said. "Tell us more about where we'll be staying."

"It's the Ambassador's cottage. He and Mrs. Hamilton are usually there during the Spring and Summer. It's very private and quiet. I'm sure you will both be comfortable there." Again his eyes strayed briefly to Erik's face before jumping back to Meg.

"How much longer will it be before we get there," Erik asked, forcing a smile.

"We should arrive within the hour, Monsieur." He nodded his head at Erik and quickly looked away.

Underneath the warmth of the heavy blanket, he felt Meg squeeze his hand. They shared a smirk and settled into an awkward silence as they traveled deeper into the dark countryside.

* * *

She saw him before he saw her. Hurrying through a wall of other guests, she met Max at the grand doors of the crowded ballroom.

"I'm so glad you're here." She discreetly took hold of his hand, glancing over her shoulder to make certain they weren't being watched too closely.

He smiled down at her. "I didn't want you to die of boredom with this crowd. So I thought I'd come an rescue you. Did I miss your performance?"

"I forgive you," She laughed, leaning into him. "Is there somewhere else we can go?"

"We'll find someplace. Come." He quickly led her out, past small patches of guests, down another hallway until they found an empty room. A fire in the large stone fireplace was the only light in the dark room. Max quickly shut the doors behind them.

They met in an embrace, their bodies welded together, her head on his shoulder. Being held by him was a relief. The last few weeks had been more than she ever expected. With every conversation, a layer was peeled away, giving her more of him. Experiencing his mind, his kindness and his creativity made her want him even more.

"I have missed you," he breathed into her ear.

"Two days here has been two days too long," she sighed. "All I wanted to do was get back to the city, and to you."

Gazing down at her, he grazed her cheek with a single gentle finger tip. "And all I wanted was to get the hell out of Stockholm and be here."

Taking his hands, she led him to the chaise in front of the fire. "I have some news."

"You're remaining in Stockholm indefinitely," he asked, smile hopeful.

"Perhaps I will after this. I've been invited to sing for the Crown Prince and Princess at their gala."

"I'm not surprised that you were invited. I should have grabbed a bottle of champagne on our way out of the ballroom for us to celebrate."

"Being alone with you is good enough for me," she said.

All the weeks they had spent alone talking about art, music, and everything under the sun, and he still had not kissed her. She knew that he wanted to as much as she wanted him to. At that moment, looking at him, being so close, she felt as hot as the fire in front of them. She felt the warm weight of him as he leaned into her. The path to each other was short, and quick as their lips finally met. The kiss was at first soft, and then deliciously hard. They lost sense of time and everything else in that kiss.

He broke away, smiling. "That was worth waiting for."

"Take me back to Stockholm with you," she begged.

"We don't have to go that far, actually," he said, stroking her face. "I'm staying at my family's country house ten minutes away. So, if you want to make your excuses to Baroness Von Hault, my carriage is right outside."

Capturing his face in her hands, she kissed him again, then hurried to the door. "Wait for me."

* * *

Meg rolled onto her back, looking up at the blue velvet bed curtains overhead. From the fur and silk lined blanket, to the finely woven sheets and down pillows, everything about that bed was ridiculously opulent. When they finally arrived late the night before, they both couldn't help but roll their eyes at the "cottage". It was two floors and 20 rooms housed inside a grand 18th century French style shell. Von Berglund gave them a blessedly brief tour before leaving. He promised them privacy and unobtrusive service. The housekeeper and caretaker would come early before they woke to deliver their meals and firewood. Any requests could be left in writing on the desk in the Ambassador's study. The Ambassador's carriage and driver were also on the grounds, ready to take them wherever they wished to go. It was the perfect arrangement, as far as Erik was concerned.

Turning her face to her left, she gazed across the bed at his back. She knew that he would likely sleep for hours. The closer their ship got to Sweden, the more unsettled he has become. She would often wake to find him standing at the portal window of their stateroom, staring out at the water. She hoped that once they were settled into the "cottage" that he would finally relax.

Slipping out of the bed, she wrapped herself in her green velvet bed robe, and padded into the marble and white tiled bathroom to clean up. As she brushed out her hair, she found herself staring lustfully at the oversized marble tub behind her. It would have been heaven to be able to do nothing but soak in a warm bath all day. But, time was unfortunately all too short, and there was more to do. As she stepped into the still dark bedroom to change, she watched Erik sleep. A part of her wished that she had nothing else to do, but to slip back into bed, fit her body against his, and soak up his warmth. But, duty and privilege were unfortunately calling her away. She picked up her dancing slippers and went downstairs on her bare feet.

* * *

Christine turned her head and was met by the stinging slap of daylight. Groaning, she buried her face back into the mountain of down pillows. As she hid out in the warm shelter, her thoughts went back to the night. It was everything she had wanted since the moment they met coupled with a bit if the unexpected. It led her to turn onto her back, and pull her left wrist out from underneath the heavy velvet coverlet. The shock of red satin ribbon still knotted around her wrist brought a smile to her lips.

 _Yes, so unexpected_.

She could feel her face turning as red as the ribbon at the memory of what led them to that moment. They had shed most of their clothes in the front hall, then kissed their way upstairs. By the time they arrived in his bedroom all that was left was the red satin ribbon wound through the various curls and braids in her hair. Then it all came unwound, and so did she.

The sound of the opening door, sent her up onto her elbows. He craned his head around the door, his smile as wide as hers. "Good morning."

She crooked her finger, beckoning him over. Falling into bed beside her, he pulled her into him. There were more gentle kisses and long looks exchanged. As she combed her fingers through his hair, she found herself at a loss for words. Embarrassed and overcome, she ducked her head into his chest.

"What is it," he whispered, caressing her back.

She finally raised her head. "I don't know. I just feel so happy."

"That's good, isn't it," he asked, his voice gentle. "Us together. Happy."

She nodded. "Yes. It's just that I think I've forgotten what that felt like. I don't know why, but it scared me a little."

His face turned a shade serious. "Why?"

She gave out a weighted sigh. "You know what my life has been like. Nothing besides music has turned out as I hoped. Being here with you reminded me of the very brief moments when I was happy. It also reminded me of how quickly the happiness ended."

"No," he crooned, taking her face in his hands. "It's not always going to be that way Christine. Things are different here than they were for you in France. I'm not your husband. I would never force you to give up what you loved. All I want is to make you happy."

"I know that, but there is something else. We've never really talked about the future. You may feel differently in a year. You may want to be with someone who is fully able to be yours. Someone whose life isn't as complicated as mine."

"No," he said, emphatically. "Christine, I don't care about being married. I never cared about marrying some rich virgin in a white dress, or having a house full of children. Until I met you I never really thought I'd ever fall in love with anyone. But, here we are. This could be every day for the rest of our lives. The two of us together every morning, waking up together, then creating and doing whatever we want. There is no reason why we can't have this kind of life."

Looking into his eyes, and listening to his words made her want to believe it. Yes, they could have that life. A life fashioned into what they both wanted. Freedom and love without explanation or obligation to anyone. Dropping her head onto his chest, she felt all the fear and anxieties drain out of her mind. All that was left was hope.

"Say something," he whispered.

Lifting her head to look at him, she finally gave into a smile. "I love you."

* * *

When he woke up he didn't know what time it was, or how long he'd been sleeping. Throwing the heavy blankets aside, Erik stepped out of bed, the cold bracing every inch of his skin. He hurriedly grabbed his shirt and trousers from the night before, and hurried into them. Going to the window, he parted the curtains, squinting hard against the sun. It was past midday, from what he could tell. Cursing under his breath, he hurried out the door. He hated losing so much time with Meg just to sleep. It would likely be the only day they would have completely to themselves before she would have to begin rehearsals in Stockholm. From the head of the stairs there was nothing to be heard, but silence. Following the stairs down and into the main hallway, he searched for her. Finally, he found her dancing in the sunlit gallery. She danced as if she could hear the music of a full orchestra. Spinning and swaying she flowed from one step into another, completely unaware of him. Though he had watched her perform countless times, she still never failed to move him. Every step and gesture was beauty. After all that time, she still took his breath away. As she came out of a pirouette, she caught him watching. She stopped, her smile like the sunlight behind her, as she walked across the gallery to meet him.

"How long have you been awake," she asked.

"Not long," he said, taking her hand to kiss it.

She laughed, raising her brows. "What is this?"

"You're beautiful, that's all," he said, his hand still locked into hers. "And I still wonder how the hell I convinced you to marry me."

"Actually, it was me who convinced you to get married," she laughed.

He lifted his shoulders. "The result was the same. And I still wonder how it happened."

She went into a relevé and laced her arms around his neck. "It happened because you are who I wanted more than anyone or anything. I still feel that way."

"Good." He lifted her off the ground, carrying her back down the hall.

"Where are you taking me," she whispered, playfully winding her legs around his waist.

"I could take you back to bed, or we could select one of the other 20 rooms in this museum. Choose one!"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

 _Maison De Chagny_

 _France_

Walking into the brightly lit salon to play lord of the manor was the last thing Raoul wanted to do. He knew they all could see the shadows under his eyes from infrequent nights of the sleep. They all knew the truth. For months, he hid himself away like a coward. The once lauded romantic hero of the _Opéra Populaire_ 's demise was just a shadow of his former self. Now, he was older and bloated from his need of alcohol. The rush to the bottle brought on by Christine's willful abandonment. No, he wasn't the hero of a great love story anymore. He was a joke now. Once he turned his back they would all be laughing, no doubt.

His mother's gloved hand pulled at his arm like a claw. "Smile," she whispered tersely.

Forcing a smile, he muttered quick greetings to a few of his guests in passing, before turning back to her. "This was a mistake."

"This is what you needed," she corrected him under her breath. "To show everyone that you're still in control. That you have everything well in hand."

"I thought that was your job," he shot back, sullenly.

"Not another word," she warned him. "If you want to keep from being the laughingstock of our friends, then you will be the man I raised you to be." She turned to an approaching guest, all gaiety and smiles. "Comte de Roqueville! So good of you to come!"

De Roqueville. His greatest social rival from the time he was 13. They both inherited their fathers's rivalry and continued it to the hilt. Up until a year ago, he felt that he was the clear winner. But, not anymore. De Roqueville was standing there, puffed up with his newest and much younger wife on his arm. The pretty little blonde smiled up at him as if he were God. Raoul gritted his teeth and stepped forward to greet them. He refused to lose face with him.

"Comtesse De Roqueville," Raoul said, his tone silky and warm. Taking her tiny hand he kissed it.

He saw the pity and discomfort in her liquid blue eyes as she looked up at him. "Monsieur Le Comte. Thank you for inviting us to your beautiful home."

"A beautiful woman like yourself is always welcome here," he said.

"And me, old friend? Am I not welcome?' De Rocqueville laughed.

Raoul forced a laugh. "Of course. Always."

"Quite a gathering you've pulled together tonight," De Rocqueville continued looking around him. "I had heard that you were _unwell_. I can say with all honesty that you're looking less like yourself these days. Have you been sleeping at all?"

Let the games begin. Raoul kept his smile steady. "Better than ever."

De Rocqueville affected the look of a concerned matron. "That's good to hear. With all this nasty business going on with Christine, I wouldn't have expected you to be up for all this."

"She will return soon," Raoul said through clenched teeth.

"Interesting. My brother just returned from a diplomatic trip to Stockholm. He says that Christine left a party with a young Count Von Fersen. And she did not return. It's been discussed by anyone who matters. If I were you, I would be there right now, getting my wife in line and ending this situation."

"That's enough," Raoul hissed.

"Raoul, I'm only telling you this for your own good," he insisted, his tone like that of a father to a child. "After all, you don't want to be the laughingstock of the continent, do you?" He laid a hand on Raoul's shoulder.

Raoul threw it off. "Get out of my house!"

De Rocqueville laughed. "Calm down, de Chagny."

The laughter. The condescending look in his eyes. The wall of faces around him with their looks of refined shock. It was too much. All he could do was retreat. He stalked out of the salon, ignoring the angry, hissing pleas of his mother as he went. He was done with it. Done with the humiliation and sitting around waiting for Christine to come back. He would bring her back. No matter what, he would bring her back. And he would do it by any means necessary.

* * *

 _The Royal Opera House_

 _Stockholm_

"So you've finally decided to join us, _Madame_ De Chagny."

Oscar stared at her over the rims of his bifocals, his face as cold as the day outside. He continued thumbing through the sheet music in his hands as she met him at center stage. The greeting she received from everyone she that day was as she had expected; cold, impassive faces, and whispers as she walked past. It made her want to run back to the warm shelter of Max's home and bed.

She let out a tired sigh, and removed her gloves. "I suppose you're angry with me. Though I don't understand why?"

He continued staring down at the sheet music. "You've created quite a mess for yourself my darling."

"My life is my own affair," she snapped. "If I take one lover or 12, I shouldn't have to answer for it!"

"Life in this world doesn't work that way. You know that," he said, his voice growing ever louder. "You indiscreetly flaunt your affairs, and people will talk. That is the consequence!"

"I'm so bored with this," she said rolling her eyes.

"You can be bored, but polite society isn't," he retorted. "Max's mother has heard all about it, and she isn't pleased. Not at all. In fact, I have heard from reliable sources that she approached the Crown Prince yesterday and demanded you be barred from performing at the gala. Thankfully, his royal highness is a open minded gentleman, and refused her."

"This is mad," she groaned.

"This is reality! You've chosen a man who just happens to be one of this country's most pursued bachelors. He is also the most elusive. If he's besotted with you, that puts him further out of the reach of a lot of wealthy young women. Women who would love nothing more than to be mother to the next Count Von Fersen. Women who are powerful enough to make your life miserable!"

""I don't care! Let them all boo me right off this stage if they want to. I'm not ashamed of myself!"

"You can't afford to slap this away Christine," he cried. "This will ruin not only your personal, but your professional reputation. All the good will you've built here will be gone. Then what?"

"Perhaps I'm tired of this life. Maybe I'm ready to give it all up!"

He shook his head. "You don't mean that."

"I mean it! Every word. I love him and that's all I care to concern myself with now!"

"Your father would hate to see you put yourself through this. He uprooted himself and brought you to Paris because he wanted better for you. His dream was to see you singing on the finest stages in Europe. Please don't throw away all that he fought to give you."

She shut her eyes, and quickly turned on heel. "I'll be in my dressing room! Don't you, or anyone else, disturb me!"

* * *

"I can't believe I'm here" Meg breathed as she and Ambassador Hamilton entered the theater.

"You will have them all at your feet," he said, laying his gloved hand on her shoulder as they walked down the carpeted aisle to the stage. "If you can win over an old sod like the President, you will have no trouble with the Swedish royals." He caught Oscar Von Rosen's eye and raised a hand in greeting. "Director, good morning!"

Oscar met them at the edge of the stage, with a weary smile. "Ambassador. I assume this is Madame De Laval."

"Pleasure to meet you," Meg submitted her hand to the requisite polite kiss.

She noticed a light in his eyes as he looked at her. "I once had the honor of meeting your mother when she was the principal dancer at the _Opera Populaire_. Of course, that was years ago and likely before you were born."

Meg laughed. "I'm always surprised by the number of admirers my mother has collected."

"How is she," he asked.

"She's well. Living in New Orleans and working as the head of the French Opera's _corps de ballet_."

Ambassador Hamilton cleared his throat, taking his gold pocket watch out of his tweed coat. "I'm afraid I must be going. I'm certain that you will be in good hands."

"Of course," Oscar replied. His tone betrayed the fact that he thought it was absurd to assume otherwise.

"I will return to escort you back to the cottage Madame," he said tipping his bowler to her. "Until then!"

" _Merci_ ," she called after him.

"I'll show you to your dressing room," Oscar said gesturing backstage. "This way Madame."

* * *

She was finally alone. The ride into Stockholm with the very chatty Ambassador did nothing to calm her nerves. Through the doors, she could hear the sounds of violins being tuned, and the hum of voices. Sounds that helped her to feel at home. Sitting at the gold framed vanity mirror, her thoughts drifted away to Erik. That morning she had realized that she hadn't bled in well over a month. It was hard keeping that to herself, but she didn't want to risk disappointing him if her flux suddenly made an appearance. Feeling that gentle flutter of hope, her hands went to her abdomen.

 _Hello...anyone there?_

She smiled to herself, feeling slightly foolish. It was stupid for her to get her hopes up so soon. Trying to get it off her mind, she began unpacking her travel bag. As she did, she mentally led herself through the steps of her dance. Rather than polish up her most famous roles of Giselle or Coppelia, she decided on Tchaikovsky's _Spanish Wedding_. But, it wouldn't be the debut of this particular piece for her. The birth of this dance was on a cold New Year's eve in their bedroom at Maison Azelée. Needless to say, Erik was always a very attentive and adoring audience of one. Ever since that night, she had been quietly working on it away from the critical eye of her mother, who would have preferred something a bit more conservative for this event. But, she knew something safe wouldn't leave the impression she desired. If this would be the most important performance of her life, it had to be unforgettable. She wanted the memory of it and her branded into the minds of everyone there. Anything less would never satisfy her.

Humming the lively tune to herself, she pirouetted behind the painted screen with it's flowers and cherubs, to undress. As she worked on the train of buttons down her back, something caught her ear. It was the sound of a woman's laughter through the wall behind her. She continued working on a stubborn satin capped button when she heard it again. The laughter was wild, throaty and abandoned. She knew that kind of laughter. It was quickly punctuated by man's voice. The sounds mingled and then escalated into something more. Meg felt the heat rush to her cheeks as the ecstatic couple continued. As she stepped out of her dress, she couldn't help but think of the encounters she and Erik had in their favored box in New Orleans. Smiling to herself, she wondered in silence, what was it about opera houses?

* * *

Christine hurried to hook her corset up, smiling at Max over her shoulder. "Didn't you say that you had a meeting at 11:00?"

He lifted his shoulders as he tucked his shirt into his trousers. "I will be there on time."

Christine nodded at the ornate clock sitting on her vanity. "You have 20 minutes."

"The King is always late. I can arrive well after 11 and still be on time," he laughed. "It will likely be a very short meeting. He'll look at my new proposed sketches. He'll hate them. It will take all of ten minutes."

She hurried to help him straighten the blue satin tie. "You're brilliant. They're brilliant. It will be fine."

"Have you spoken to Oscar yet," he asked.

She gave up an irritated laugh. "He said I should fully prepare myself for the ire of all the virginal daughters of Sweden's noblest houses. They and their mothers all want my head now that I have seduced you away from them."

He scoffed. "Oscar is ridiculous. Forget him and them." Kissing her hard, his hands went to her waist, and then dropped to her hips.

Laughing, she broke away from the kiss and gently peeled his hands away. "Go! You'll be late."

Slipping on his coat, he blew her a kiss at the door. "Tonight then, Jezebel."

* * *

"Brava! Bellissimo!"

Meg smiled down at Oscar Von Rosen, and took an appreciative bow. "My mother wanted me to dance one of my solos from Giselle. What do you think?"

Oscar smiled broadly. "I would respectfully disagree with her. That was brilliant. Dance that way tomorrow night, and all of Stockholm will be at your feet."

"That's my aim," she laughed. "Thank you Director. I will see you tomorrow night."

"Until then Madame De Laval!"

She dashed off the stage feeling invigorated and alive. The practice couldn't have gone any better. She had to confess to herself that not having her mother there made the difference. No constant criticism that left her second guessing everything. No nagging critiquing of her costume choice or her hair. Perhaps, she should consider leaving Antoinette at home more often. As she made her way to her dressing room doors, she saw the neighboring doors swing open. Perhaps she would get the chance to meet one half of they very passionate duo next door? The smile she wore dropped when she saw Christine walking out. They both froze, staring each other down, their mouths open in mutual wordless shock. Christine spoke first.

"Meg. I didn't know that you would be here."

Meg managed a smirk. "Of course, I didn't realize you would be either."

Christine's smile was equally insincere. "I'm sure if you had, you wouldn't be here".

"And you would be right about that."

"How is Erik?"

Meg sucked in her breath. No. She wouldn't tell her anything. Not a damn thing! "He isn't here, Christine. He's somewhere else, not giving you a second thought. Excuse me."

The final look shared was lethal. Every resentment and curse the other had ever had about the other was exposed. There would be no peace or amends made that day. Perhaps, never.

Christine turned her back as the slamming of Meg's doors echoed through the hall behind her.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

He couldn't sleep. Turning his head, Erik listened to the gentle sound of her breathing in the dark. She was still, as she had been all evening, out of reach. From the moment she arrived from Stockholm, she seemed distracted and on edge. Every smile she gave him was strained with some emotion hiding just underneath. He tried everything he knew to coax her to open up to him, but he was ultimately denied.

"It's been a long day. That's all," she sighed, turning out the lights.

Sliding out of bed, he picked up a heavy velvet robe, and went downstairs. The Ambassador's study had become his refuge in the otherwise cold and unwelcoming house. With its leather chairs, and walls of filled bookshelves, it was a room made for warmth and comfort. Helping himself to a glass of Cognac, he stepped to the large balcony doors, and let himself out. Despite the sting of the cold air, he remained there, savoring the rich taste of the drink in his hand and the beauty of stars overhead. As he looked over the dark expanse of the grounds he noticed lighted windows through the wall of trees, along with the soft trail of smoke emanating from a chimney. Apparently, he wasn't the only one who wasn't able to sleep that night.

* * *

"Is anything wrong?"

Max looked up from the small leather bound book in his lap to welcome her with a tired smile. "No. I'm just not ready to sleep yet."

She joined him in front of the fire, running a hand through his hair. "What are you reading?"

He looked down at the small leather volume in his hand, his smile fading. "My father's journal. One of many he kept while he was working for our ambassador to France."

Christine perched on the edge of the arm of the chair. "I'm sure you treasure it."

Max nodded. "It helps me to feel that he's still here in a way. That I'm sitting with him in this room again, listening to his stories. There are things in here that he told me about, and some things I wish I never knew."

She dropped a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

He shrugged. "When I found these journals I knew there was a chance I would find out things I may not be comfortable with."

"You can talk about it, if you want," she offered.

He reached up and took her hand. For a time, he sat in heavy silence, staring into the fire. Then it came out. "I have a brother."

Christine felt a chill run through her as she recalled their first conversation. His father's love of opera. His visits to the Opera Populaire before he was born. She had tried to ignore it, but the possibilities were all too clear.

"Do you know his name," she whispered.

"No. Nothing. All I know is that he exists." He opened the journal again, flipping the delicate pages to a folded note. "My father was in love with a young woman named Lillian. She was training as a soprano at the Royal Academy of Music in Paris at the time. The only reason I know he exists is because of this letter." He unfolded the paper and allowed her to read the faded words. It was clearly unfinished.

 _Lillian,_

 _Why didn't you tell me? I deserved to know the truth! To know about him. Your refusal to answer my letters is wrong. I want to see my son. Please._

"Is that all," Christine asked.

"That's all my father ever wrote about him. There isn't any other mention of Lillian in his later entries." Letting out a heavy sigh, he took the letter back and slipped it into the journal. "I wish he had told me."

She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, feeling guilty for the relief she felt at that moment. "Perhaps it's better this way. Knowing him may only complicate your life."

Staring down at the journal in his hand, Max murmured, "Perhaps."

She shut her eyes, trying to resist the truth of what she knew and what she felt. Struggling silently between truth and reason, she tried to tell herself that she had no proof. This long lost brother could have been anyone at all. Who was to say he was even still alive? Perhaps both he and Lillian were long gone from this world. Why disrupt what they had by opening up that pandora's box? Why do that when they were both so happy?

Opening her eyes, she reached down and gently pried the journal from his hands to set it aside. With her lips to his ear, she whispered, "Come _mon amour_. Come to bed."

* * *

He greeted her with a smile. "Good morning."

Meg was wrapped in a satin robe, her hair in a perfect dancer's chignon. He could see and sense that her dark mood hadn't left with the night. With the same taut smile, she poured herself a cup of coffee and took her seat across from him. Forgetting the rich breakfast in front of him, he decided to try again.

"Whatever it is that is troubling you, it would be best to tell me. I know you well enough, and you're never this nervous before a performance."

Dropping her fork, she gave him a look of exasperation. "It's nothing."

"I don't believe that," he countered.

She sighed, "I didn't want to tell you. But, I suppose you'll find out any way." Pausing, she looked him fully in the eye. "Christine will be performing at the gala tonight."

He said nothing, inwardly choking on the sudden emotion fighting its way up. That day at Maison Azelée when he had turned her away, he hoped that it would be the last time he ever saw her face. Now, again she was in his life, uninvited.

"I will understand if you don't want to be there tonight," Meg whispered across the table.

It would have been easy to escape through that open door. To run from the feeling gnawing its way through him. But, when he looked at Meg, he knew that he couldn't do it. The look in her eyes, and the sadness in her voice convicted him. It was a moment when he had to choose. Would he bow to the past, or would he choose her? Reaching across the table, he took her hand.

"Nothing is going to keep me away tonight."

"Are you sure," she asked.

He gave her an emphatic nod. "I will be there to see you dance, no matter what."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

 _The Royal Arts Gala_

 _Stockholm_

"Your box, Monsieur De Laval." Von Berglund opened the door and stepped aside.

Erik entered the box, quietly looking it over. It was better than expected. Perfect actually. Slipping out of his coat, he turned to thank his guide. "This is good. Thank you Von Berglund."

The young man inclined his head. "I'll be back to escort you out to meet the carriage, as we discussed."

Erik took his seat, and inclined his head in return. Von Berglund made a fast retreat, leaving him to listen to the last of the first performance. It was an Italian baritone performing a passably good Mephistopheles from Gounod's _Faust_. From behind the shade of the blue velvet curtain, he was able to see the stage and the entire theatre perfectly. So far, everything had progressed without issue. Von Berglund met him at one of the opera's side entrances 10 minutes after the royal couple's arrival. There wasn't a soul to witness his arrival or progress to the seclusion of the box. It was the kind of box that he would have demanded during his time at the Opera Populaire. He wondered what self important aristocrat Ambassador Hamilton had to bribe in order to secure it for him?

Mephistopheles took a bow as the audience broke into muted applause. Erik laughed to himself as the young Italian stared out at the tepid audience with a look of confusion. Taking a sullen bow, he backed out of the lights and disappeared backstage. Obviously he was accustomed to a more enthusiastic response from the audiences in Rome. It made him think of Carlotta Guidicelli. He wondered what that Italian peacock was doing with herself in those days. Likely dramatically crying her eyes out over every wrinkle, and making the lives of those around her a misery. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the gold watch that Lucia gifted him at Christmas. It was half an hour into the gala, and Meg was to be one of the last performers of the evening. Closing his watch, he tried not to think of what was coming as he listened to the typical hurried clearing of throats and muted voices.

All went silent as another curtain rose, revealing a softly painted mural of the moon nestled behind the clouds hovering above ocean waves. A figure appeared and moved slowly to the head of the stage. The strains of an all too familiar tune of Vivaldi's _Sovente Il Sole_ rose from the orchestra. He closed his eyes, allowing the music to take him back to that first night he made himself known to Christine. It was the first bit of music that tied them together. It was the start of everything.

When he opened his eyes, he saw her standing in the muted spotlight at the head of the stage. She was dressed in a voluminous gown of oyster silk, with ropes of pearls threaded through her dark hair. Even from a distance he could see the fear in her eyes as she looked out over the crowd. He leaned forward, waiting to hear the achingly exquisite sound of her voice that he remembered on that long ago night in the opera's chapel. But, the voice that emanated from her lips wasn't what he remembered. Every note was tight and strained. To the untrained ear, she would have sounded competent, or even elegant. But, he knew her. He knew her voice as intimately as his own. He knew what she was capable of, and what he heard pained him. The fear she was holding in, he was feeling too. Before he arrived he expected to feel towards her what he had for so long; that same cold disregard that he did the last time he saw her face. But something was happening that he hadn't prepared himself for. All the emotions he had been fighting away swelled up inside him; grief, longing, love and hate. He felt them all passing through him in a moment.

 _Christine..._

Hanging his head, he surrendered like a man drowning.

Then it was over.

There was a stunning silence, followed by chilled applause. Raising his head, he watched her sink into a graceful curtsey, and then moved out of the light. For a moment, he contemplated leaving, so that he could disappear into solitude. To sleep uninterrupted until this raw exhaustion was gone. But, he remained, grounded into his seat through one performance, and then another. Hanging on for the moment he would see Meg's face. He needed her at that moment more than ever.

The bright staccato of castanets, strings and flutes of Tchaikovsky's _Spanish Dance_ heralded her arrival. He saw her, leaping into the spotlight, fan held aloft. The sight of her was like being rescued. Every move and leap was both fire and perfection. Then he realized that her eyes were on him, beckoning him back from his emotional edge. He followed her every move and gesture, finding himself forgetting Christine and everything he had felt before. Turning out of one last pirouette, she struck her final pose. The crowd rose to its collective feet and the applause was like a sudden storm.

Meg was, without question, the star of the evening.

* * *

"You were everything Ambassador Hamilton promised."

Meg looked up from her curtsey, dazzled by the smile of Crown Princess Victoria. "I'm so honored by your invitation your royal highness."

Crown Prince Gustaf joined them, giving Meg's hand a polite kiss. "We are honored by your acceptance of it Madame De Laval."

The Crown Princess took her hand as if they were the warmest of friends. "Every year we throw a charitable gala for Christmas. It would please both of us so much if you would come back and perform for us again."

She caught Ambassador Hamilton's eye, as he gave her an encouraging nod. Of course, she should say yes! Why not?

"Again, I would be honored to accept," Meg said.

"Wonderful," Prince Gustaf replied, offering his arm to his wife. "We look forward to seeing you perform again."

Meg dipped into a final curtsey, as they royal couple inclined their heads in parting. Watching them walk away was like the end of a surreal moment. Could that have been real? Or had she dreamed the entire night? Her head was spinning from everything that had happened.

"How does it feel to have all of Stockholm at your feet," Ambassador Hamilton asked.

Meg laughed, "I don't know. The entire night feels unreal right now."

Mrs. Hamilton arrived, arrayed in grey velvet and diamonds that would rival the Crown Princess's. "You were impeccable my dear. Now, we should all go to the gala reception and enjoy some champagne!"

"I'm afraid the night is over for me," Meg sighed. "I'm exhausted in every way."

With an elegantly dismissive shrug Mrs. Hamilton reached out her hand to her husband. "Very well. Perhaps we will have time to see both you and Monsieur De Laval before your departure? Come, darling."

Ambassador Hamilton offered her his arm, smiling at Meg as they parted. "Check the papers in the morning. I'm sure your face and name will be all over them!"

Meg smiled in goodbye and hurried back through the maze of hallways to her dressing room. All she could think about was finally being with Erik. As she danced, she knew where he would be, cloistered in the top most box. There were moments when she caught sight of him, peering down at her from on high. She couldn't wait to be with him. When she turned the corner she was met with the unwelcomed sight of Christine at the end of the hall. She wasn't alone. Wrapped up in the arms of a dark haired man, and in a passionate kiss, neither noticed her.

Shooting a petty smirk at their backs, Meg continued down the hall on light feet, hoping to remain unnoticed.

As she reached her dressing room door, Christine suddenly pulled away from him. The look on her face at she stared at Meg was pure panic. For the first time, Meg took notice of his face. She felt herself going numb as she stared at him in mute shock.

 _His face._

 _How could this be?_

"My god," Meg whispered, backing her way down the hall. She turned to run.

Christine was at her heels, grabbing at her arm. "Meg, wait!"

"Leave me alone Christine," Meg cried, trying to shake her off.

"Please, stop and let me explain!"

"No! I told you to leave me alone!"

Christine pulled on her arm, forcing her into an empty room, and shutting the door behind them. Meg was at the wall, her face as white as winter as Christine slowly approached her.

"Who the hell is he Christine?"

"Meg, I need for you to calm down and listen to me."

"Calm down," Meg said, her voice trembling. "I find you kissing a man who looks exactly like my husband. So much so that he could have been Erik! How could you expect me to calm down?"

Christine grabbed hold of her shoulders, eyes pleading. ""I know it's a shock. I never intended for you to see him!"

Meg pulled away, hand out. "You need to tell me who the hell he is!"

"His name is Max Von Fersen. When I first laid eyes on him I thought it was Erik too. It was a shock."

Meg's smile was cruel. "I guess your motive for pursuing him is obvious."

Christine shut her eyes. "I was drawn to him because he looked so much like Erik. Yes! But, the more I got to know him, the more I loved him because of who he is. It doesn't have anything to do with Erik anymore!"

"Does he know," Meg asked. "Have you told him about Erik?"

"Of course not! And I don't think he needs to know!"

"So you're content to lie to him about why you were drawn to him in the first place?"

"I love him! It doesn't matter how it began! Meg! I know you hate me now. I understand why! But, I'm begging you to let this be! To let me have some happiness in my life!"

A knock at the door silenced them. "Christine? Is everything alright?"

Christine quickly wiped her eyes as she hurried to the door. "Yes. Please give us a second."

Reaching for the door handle, she shot Meg a pleading look. "Please. Please." She mouthed.

Closing her eyes, Meg whispered, "Go."

The sound of his voice reached Meg's ear as Christine opened the door. For a moment they locked eyes. Her head told her that he was a stranger, but heart still felt a strange ache as she looked him over.

 _How the hell is this possible..._

Then he was gone, leaving her to fall back against the support of the wall behind her. Her mind was a knotted up mess of thoughts and questions.

 _Should I tell Erik?_

 _If I do, what then?_

Even after she felt strong enough to leave that silent space, she still had no answers.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

 _Sweden_

"Are you ever going to tell me about your history with Madame De Laval?"

The dreaded question had finally come. Christine lifted her head from Max's shoulder, to look at him. "It's nothing more than old childish resentments. Nothing truly important."

"But, she looked at me was as if she knew me. As if I was a part of it somehow," he said. "It was confusing."

"I know, and I'm sorry," she said, stroking his face. "I had hoped that we wouldn't be bothered by her or my past."

"I love you and there isn't anything that you could tell me that would change that," he pressed. "I want to know everything about you and your life. All of it."

"Like I said before, it's not important. Please, let's just put tonight behind us. Maybe one day I'll be able to explain it to you. But, not just yet."

The carriage rode through the gate and up to the front door. Max stepped down first and guided her out and into his arms. Gazing down into her face, he touched his brow to hers. "All that matters to me is us. Nothing else."

* * *

Erik stepped down from the carriage and waited for Meg. The long ride was over, and both of them were grateful that the long evening was at last behind them.

Meg extended a gloved hand and stepped out into the cold with him. The look she gave him from beneath her velvet hood was a silent apology. He could see the exhaustion and the sadness there. He wanted so much to take it all away.

Leaning down he kissed her on the mouth, and then whispered, "Do you want me to have Von Berglund rearrange our passage? We can leave sooner, if that would make you happy."

"Yes," she sighed, leaning her head against his chest. "I just want to leave. I miss our home, Lucia, and the sun."

He laughed softly in agreement. "I will write him a note and have the driver deliver it in the morning, then."

The distant crack of gunfire and a woman's screams tore through the dark. Erik pushed Meg towards the door as the driver yelled, "It sounds like it came from the Von Fersen house! I'll ride out and get help!"

"Go in the house and wait for me," Erik shouted, leaving the steps.

Meg grabbed his arm. "No!"

He shook her off. "Just listen to me! Go in the house and lock the door!"

"Erik!"

He kept going, deeper into the dark and disappearing through the wall of trees.

* * *

"Let go of me," Christine screamed.

Raoul's fingers were ground so deeply into her arm that she felt they would tear through her skin. "Do you think I'm going to keep allowing you to humiliate me? You're going back where you belong!"

"No," she screamed through tears. "Please!" He dragged her away from Max's body and down the icy path, the barrel of the pistol jabbed into her side.

She scanned the nearby row of trees. Through them she could make out the faint lights in the windows of the neighboring house. She gritted her teeth against the pain and fear, hoping that someone heard her. Hoping that someone would come in time. But, there was no one. In that moment, she knew that for the first time in her life that she was truly alone. There was no one who would come to save her this time. No father. No angel. No hero. She would have to try to save herself and Max.

With her free hand she gripped the barrel of the pistol. They began struggling, their hands and fingers grasping and pulling at the pistol between them. He grabbed at her throat, pushing her to the icy ground. She kept grabbing at the pistol, and gasping for air. Every second she could feel herself losing strength, and everything around her growing blacker.

Suddenly, he was gone.

Struggling for her breath, she rolled onto her stomach, but there was no sign of Raoul. Again, she heard the pistol fire off in the distance. A hand gripped her shoulder and another pulled her up from the ground. She immediately knew the voice in her ear.

"Hurry!"

Meg led her away and back towards the house. There, they found Max seated up against the door, a hand clutching his bleeding side. Christine dropped to her knees beside him, cradling and kissing his face.

"Are you alright?"

He nodded, and tried to get up only to end up on the ground again.

Meg quickly took the long silk scarf from around her neck and began wrapping it tightly around his body underneath his coat.

"We're both going to have to help him up."

She lifted his arm and slid her shoulder beneath it. "Now you Christine. Slowly as you can. Monsieur, I need for you to try to help us help you."

Max nodded and worked with them, groaning in pain as they got him to his feet. They opened the door, walking him carefully through the front hall and into the sitting room. As they hurried to get his coat off, Erik appeared in the door way. Meg ran to him.

"Are you hurt?"

Erik shook his head. "Nothing that won't heal in a few days."

"And Raoul," Christine asked.

"Unconscious and tied up in the caretaker's cottage," Erik breathed.

Meg threw her arms around him. "I was so scared."

"Everything is going to be alright."

As he held onto Meg, he glanced over her shoulder at Christine and Max Von Fersen. Christine watched the awareness growing in Erik's face as he looked at Max. When she looked down at Max, she saw him staring wide eyed at Erik.

Sudden hard rapid knocks on the door sent Meg hurrying to answer it. Their carriage driver and the local watch hurried in along with a gentleman who introduced himself as a doctor. Everyone was rushed out, and the doors between them and Max shut.

* * *

Erik remained wide awake, pacing the study in silence as Christine stared at the doors. It had been hours of waiting and stretches of silence that were disrupted at moments by pained groans from across the hall. As he wandered from the dying fire to the window, Erik kept returning to the moment he saw Max Von Fersen. He kept trying to talk himself out of what he saw.

After the lengthy struggle with De Chagny, how could he have really been certain of anything?

The room was dark.

He was exhausted in every way.

No. It had to have been a mistake.

He looked over at Christine to find her staring at him over her shoulder. They held each other's gaze until she finally looked away. There was something more in her eyes than just fear. He had seen that look before. It was the look she gave him that final night under the opera. A mix of pity and of sorrow.

The doors across the hall opened fast as the doctor stepped out to meet Christine. In broken French he explained that Count Von Fersen would recover. The bullet was successfully removed and he was sleeping deeply. He went on with further instructions as he walked Christine back into the sitting room.

Erik and Meg remained behind as she joined him at the window.

"What's going to happen to Raoul," she asked.

Erik gave her a tired smile. "He'll get exactly what he deserves."

"Will they jail him here or will he be returned to France," she asked.

"He'll spend time in a Swedish jail until one of his powerful friends steps in and has him released. You know the wealthy and their back room deals."

"I never thought Raoul would do something like this. He was always_."

"Always the hero," Erik muttered. "Not anymore. Not after tonight."

* * *

Morning arrived and so did Christine. She appeared quietly in the doorway of the Ambassador's house as the coachman labored past her with their trunks. Meg hurried up from their breakfast to meet her in an embrace. Seeing both these women together embracing as if there had never been a past was strange to Erik. But, after all they had been through the night before, he was more than ready to simply let things be. He took one last needed sip of coffee and rose from his place to greet Christine as Meg walked her in.

"How is Count Von Fersen," he asked.

She managed to smile. "He's well. The doctor is back again to check his wound." The smiled faded out as she glanced down at small leather book in her hands. "I didn't want either of you to leave without talking to you about what happened last night."

Meg's face registered a look of panic. "There is no need to do this right now."

"Meg, he deserves to know the truth." She gave Erik a pleading look.

Again, the memory of Max Von Fersen's face came back. He tried to push back at it with more excuses. Yet, when he looked at both Meg's and Christine's faces, he knew there was nowhere to go. He tossed the linen napkin onto the table as he stared at Christine.

"Very well then. Talk."

Christine approached him, the small leather volume extended like an offering. "This is the journal that Max's father kept when he lived in Paris. It was well over 30 years ago. In it are entries about him and a young soprano named Lillian."

Erik turned away, hands clutched at his sides. It was the first time he'd heard his mother's name spoken in years. Suddenly, she was there with her incomparably beautiful smile, holding out a soft hand to him. Her phantom reaching out to him after so many years. Then she was gone and again he stood alone.

"There is also a letter to her that he began, but never sent. Erik, he didn't know you existed until after you were born. He wanted to know you. He did. And so does Max."

He felt Meg's hand on his back. "When I saw him last night at the opera, I knew. I knew he had to be your family. I didn't know how to tell you. I was so afraid it would hurt you."

Erik stood unmoved like a stone. It was all too much. After years of trying to forget, how could he suddenly forgive? Why would he throw open his life to a stranger who had the love of his absent father and the face he had been denied?

"Erik?"

He shrugged Meg's hand away and hurried to the door.

Christine reached for him but, he pushed her away. "No!"

"All I want is to make up for what I did to you," she cried.

He gave up an empty laugh. "Christine, all you've ever done is bring misery to my life. I'm not going to stand here and give you another chance to do that again!"


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

 _Sweden_

Every day Max grew stronger. He had refused all demands from his mother that he convalesce at her home, which didn't endear her to Christine. But, neither of them cared about that. All that mattered was that he was alive and that Raoul De Chagny would never bother them again.

"I really do love you, you know," he whispered, while they sat together in front of the fire.

"I know." She smiled, giving him a gentle kiss.

"And I can't wait to be able to show you." He raised his brows, smile teasing.

"Not until you are completely recovered," she laughed. "I don't want to give your mother another reason to hate me."

"She doesn't hate you," he said, lightly. "She may not like you, but she doesn't hate you. But, enough about her." He reached into the pocket of his robe. "There is something I have been thinking about these past few days. And I hope you will feel the same." He revealed a small red lacquer box in the palm of his hand. When he opened it, Christine saw the fire of a single diamond surrounded by pears.

"My God," she breathed. "Max?"

He nodded, taking hold of her left hand. "I know I said I didn't care about marriage. But, things have changed."

"Raoul will never_."

"He will," Max said. "I wrote a letter for the authorities to give to Raoul. In it I told him that if he would grant you a divorce, then I wouldn't pursue charges."

"No," she cried. "I never would have asked that of you!"

"As long as you're free and he's out of our lives for good, that's all I care about."

"There is no way he'll ever agree."

Max smiled. "He has agreed. Once the papers are drawn up and he has signed them, then he will be released and free to return to France. That is the agreement."

She threw her arms around him, crying into his shoulder. "I can't believe you did that."

"I did and I would do it again. Now, the only question is, will you say yes?"

The word yes ready on her lips. Then it died. All the happiness drained from her face. She pulled away from him, shutting her eyes.

"I want to say yes, more than anything. But, there is something you deserve to know the truth about."

He reached for her. "Whatever it is, it doesn't matter."

"It does. It does because it's about you. And I can't marry you without you knowing it."

He sat back, confusion working his face. "Alright. Then tell me everything."

* * *

 _Maison Azelée_

 _Louisiana_

 _A year later_

"Are you ever going to read this?" Meg held up the letter.

Erik didn't turn from the piano, but continued rewriting the notes of his latest composition. "I told you to throw it away months ago."

She perched herself on the edge of the piano bench. "What harm would it do to read it? You wouldn't have to reply."

He dropped his pen. "Why does this matter so much to you?"

"It matters because he's your family and he obviously wants to know you. Why not just read what he has to say?"

"I would prefer to think about happier things," he said, setting a gentle hand on the soft swelling of her stomach.

She smiled. "You can think about both."

"If I had known how stubborn you were_."

"You still would have married me," she said, linking her arms around his neck.

"I suppose so," he laughed, kissing her.

"Why don't I open it and read it to you," she proposed. "Then, if you don't like what he has to say, then we can throw it into the fire and be done with it."

He pulled away from her and returned to his pages. "Fine. Read it if you like and then let it burn."

Meg shot him an exasperated look, and opened the envelope. There was only one page filled with Von Fersen's bold handwriting. She took a deep breath and began.

 _Monsieur De Laval,_

 _I'm not certain how to begin, but knowing what I know now I couldn't not write to you. You deserve to know how much our father grieved not knowing you. In the months since I was told about our bond, I found another of my father's private journals in the bottom of an old trunk. Several entries were about you and your mother. In them he wrote of his anguish at her refusal to answer his letters. He never stopped wondering where you were, and at one point he assumed you had died. I wish you had known him. I wish we had both known you. As I write this, I'm not expecting a reply. I wouldn't blame you for not wanting to. But, I hope that you will. I would be honored to know you. Even if you never think of me as your brother, I am still offering you my friendship._

 _MVF_

She sat quietly, staring at Erik. "That's all. Should I throw it the fire?"

He kept his eyes on his work, and took his time answering. "No. Leave it here. I may read it again."

Smiling, she left the letter on the piano bench beside him.

* * *

Loud feminine shrieks and cackles echoed through the opera as Meg arrived for her practice. The entire company was seated around the stage, and every eye was on Labreau's newest protégée Mimi LaFevre. The newly married LaFevre had just returned from a whirlwind honeymoon in Europe, and it seemed everyone wanted to know every detail. Meg went to the barre just offstage and began warming up, trusting that her mother would arrive soon enough, cracking her whip as she went. She was sure that she would feel it too. Her mother and Labreau had chased her off the stage more than once. Pregnant women don't dance, they claimed. She couldn't take another day of sitting with her feet up when she was still so early into her pregnancy.

"What is going on with Christine Daae?"

That question pulled Meg from the barre and to the curtain. Since their departure from Sweden, she hadn't heard from Christine at all. There had been no mention of her performing anywhere, and there was no mention of her in Max's letters.

"I was told by my dear friend who manages the Garnier that La Daee is in hiding," LeFevre said. "She was sleeping with some Swedish royal, and I guess he got tired of her. She is old after all."

There was laughter as she continued.

"Her husband apparently got tired of her too. Divorced. So if any of you ladies are looking for a step up, he's very rich and very lonely!"

Meg pushed her way through the crowd and to the center of the stage. "I think you need to shut your mouth!"

LeFevre crossed her arms, eyes narrowed. "Or what? You're going to tell your mother and have me escorted out?"

"No. But, I will." Labreau arrived, face sour. "None of you are being paid to sit around and gossip. Get off the stage!" The assembled audience scrambled and disappeared. He came to stand beside Meg, staring down his surly faced diva. "Christine Daee may not be 20 anymore, but if she walked through those doors and asked me to employ her, you'd be gone."

"Well, maybe I don't want to work for a two bit ringmaster like you anymore," she shot back. "My husband is wealthy and I don't have to work another day!"

Labreau bowed from the waist and gestured at the exit. "Then au revoir!"

"Gladly," she sniffed, strutting past him. "Don't bother asking me to save you when you can't get a decent replacement!"

"No worries there," he barked at her. "Keep walking!"

The slamming of the backstage doors could be heard everywhere. Labreau exhaled as he put an arm around Meg. "I'm sorry you had to hear all of that in your condition."

"Actually that made my day," Meg said, smiling. "I couldn't just stand by and listen to her gossip about Christine."

"Well, most of it wasn't exactly untrue."

"What have you heard," she asked, taking his arm.

"I have friends in Europe who have shared that Christine isn't doing well. She's not performing."

"Perhaps with her daughter in France?"

"The last they heard she was staying with a patron in New York of all places! Tutoring his children in music."

"Would you be able to find out where in New York she is," Meg asked. "I think it would be good if I wrote to her."

"It may take some time, but I'm sure I could find out something," he promised, as he ushered her off the stage. "Now, you need to get yourself home ma donna! Put your feet up!"

* * *

"Papa!"

Erik hurried out of the nursery and shut the door softly behind him. After a long night spent pacing the floor with their new arrival, he was determined to keep the entire house as quiet as possible. Leaning over the railing he found Lucia and put a finger to his lips in silent command. She nodded and met him at the foot of the stairs.

"What is it," he whispered leading her away.

"There's a carriage coming up the drive."

"It's likely Labreau," he muttered opening the door. Since little Alexandre's birth both he and Antoinette were there daily, fussing over Meg and hanging over the crib as if their baby were the Christ child. After so little sleep he had no patience to spare for their adoring nonsense.

The carriage door opened and the face that met him took him aback. After almost two years and countless letters, they were finally face to face again. Erik smiled and extended his hand to Max.

"So, you've finally decided to accept my invitation?"

Max smile broadly, and shook his hand. "Yes, my friend. I finally decided to leave the cold north for the sun. This must be Lucia." He took her hand and gave it a polite kiss. "You are the mirror image of your mother."

She raised a pale brow. "And you look almost exactly like Papa. It's uncanny."

Max laughed, somewhat awkwardly then looked at Erik. "Yes. Where is your lovely wife?"

Erik gestured to the door and walked him inside. "Taking a well deserved nap. Our son was born a month ago. I'm assuming my letter didn't reach you."

Max stroked his newly grown beard. "Not likely, I'm afraid. I've actually been in the Caribbean for two months, and also Cuba and Puerto Rico."

Erik laughed, pouring him a glass of rum. "Hence the beard and the color in your face."

"Yes," he laughed in return taking the rum. "The islands treated me well. I'm thinking of leaving Sweden entirely and buying a home somewhere near San Juan."

"That would be quite a change," Erik said. Standing there watching Max talk and sip his rum, he wondered if he still thought about Christine.

"I feel I could make a life there. Sweden doesn't really feel like the place I belong anymore."

Erik nodded. "I can understand that feeling perfectly. Sometimes you just need to leave and start over."

"And for you it worked out," Max said gesturing at the space around them. "You have a family and a fine home. Two things I am currently without."

Christine's name was on Erik's lips, but the sound of Meg's voice quieted him. She arrived, descending gracefully down the stairs in white linen, hair unbound and looking like a goddess. It amazed him that even after so many years she still managed to awe him. Watching her greet Max, he did indeed feel like he was by far the more fortunate one. Christine's name died on his lips and all thoughts of her were momentarily forgotten.

* * *

The days with Max in the house had passed by pleasantly for all of them. The bond between him and Erik had only strengthened. For once, Meg finally felt that the peace at Maison Azelée was blessedly permanent. The weather was unseasonably cool that day, and Lucia, who had become the perfect hostess, insisted they all take lunch outdoors. A large blanket was spread out and plates of food passed around. Erik and Lucia decided to make use of the lawn bowl set Labreau bought them and began their own tournament. Meg smiled at Max from under her wide-brimmed hat as she held Alexandre on her lap.

"It's been wonderful having you here."

He nodded. "I've enjoyed every minute of it. But, I will be leaving very soon."

"Please don't think that I'm subtly trying to get you to move on," she laughed. "We would all be happy if you were to stay on in Louisiana permanently."

There was a tinge of sadness in his smile. "I would prefer it, but I did receive some news from Sweden. My mother's health is declining and I am expected."

"Will you be returning there for good," she asked.

He gave his head an adamant shake. "No. Once my mother passes away, I've decided that I'm going to sell off our estate. My father was an only child, and I don't have any desire to remain there anymore. It makes sense for me to simply part with all of it and start anew."

Meg took that first careful step. "I received a letter from Christine recently."

He kept his eyes on the copper cup in his hand. "Is she well?"

"Well enough," Meg replied, placing Alexandre back into his basket. "She's working for a wealthy patron who settled in New York City. His daughter is showing promise as a soprano, and she's working with her. As to whether or not she's happy, I couldn't say."

Max nodded. "I hope that she is. We didn't end well, and I said things that were very harsh, to be honest."

"You should write her."

"I don't think that would be wise," Max objected.

"Why not?"

Max looked out over the gardens, words failing him. "I don't have much of a reason other than how I feel. And right now, I feel that it wouldn't be best. She's moving on with her life and I'm doing the same."

Meg decided to leave it at that, and let the silence breathe between them.

* * *

Max waved out the window at Erik and Meg as the carriage pulled away. Leaning his head against the leather seat behind him, he took a moment to console himself with the promise that he would return. Reaching into his leather bag next to him, he searched for his passage papers. They were neatly arranged in a leather folio he had bought while in New Orleans. But, there was also something else folded neatly with them. He unfolded the paper and recognized Meg's fanciful handwriting.

 _In case you change your mind._

 _The Kellermann Mansion. W 74th Street. New York City_

For a moment he considered bawling up the paper and tossing it out the window. Yet, something kept him from doing it. He folded it up, and returned it to the leather folio, certain that he would never need it.

* * *

Mad. That's what he was. Completely mad. As he walked down W 74th Street through the crowded sidewalk, he was revisited by his last words to her.

 _You were chasing a fantasy. That's what I was to you. A way to have him, unscarred and completely in you hands. I can't do this anymore Christine. Please go!_

He shut the door on her and her pleas. The sound of her cries ripped into his memory. Then she was gone, and he convinced himself that it was all for the best. He would rather be alone than live with a counterfeit version of love. Eventually, he would fall out of love with her. But, it didn't happen. He thought leaving Sweden for the warmth of the islands and their beaches would erase her from his heart and mind. But, everywhere he went, he found her again. Curly haired dark eyed beauties in Havana, or some hauntingly beautiful voice singing a mournful Spanish melody from a balcony kept her alive. His longing for her never seemed to die no matter where he went or what he did. Running from it and trying to forget her hand only served to make it more insatiable. Finally, he realized that Meg had quietly slipped the address into his bag out of wisdom. Facing her one last time was the only way to end this. Either she would forgive him or she would send him away.

As he came to stand at the steps of the 4 story gothic mansion, he knew that he was ready for either outcome. Pressing the doorbell, he stood by and waited. Within a minute he was greeted by the milky face of a young maid.

"Can I help you sir?"

He managed to string together what little English he knew. "I'm here to speak to Mademoiselle Daee."

The young woman tipped her head to the side, smiling. "You're Swedish, aren't you?"

He smiled back. "Yes. How did you know?"

"Your accent," she said. "My grandmother was Swedish."

"A pleasant coincidence."

"It's New York. Most of us are immigrants." Shaking her head, she smiled. "I'm sorry, you asked about Miss Daee. She's not here. But, I think you might find her in the park. The large one just across street."

He tipped his hat and smiled. "Tack så mycket."

Giving him a shy smile, she inclined her head and quickly shut the door. He turned away and hurried back down the steps and to the sidewalk. Weaving around pockets of strolling locals he reached the end of the street and crossed to the park. From what he had read of Central Park, he knew it was massive. She could be anywhere. He kept walking, through the gate and down a winding lane and past a large fountain where children played. He searched every woman's face, but didn't find her. He continued his path down another lane past the boat filled lake. As he rounded the bend he came upon a white stone bridge. It was mostly vacant, save for a woman standing in the middle watching the boats go by. He took a moment to wipe his brow with his handkerchief as he watched her. Likely it would be just another strange face underneath another hat. He slowly began his walk down the length of the bridge towards her. Then she suddenly turned in his direction.

"Christine?"

Her eyes went wide. "Max."

He swallowed hard as he approached her. "May we speak?"

Her confusion morphed into anger, as she gripped the satin purse in her hands. "I don't know if there is much left for us to say. You've already made it very clear how you feel about me."

"I was very angry and hurt. It's true. I said things to you that were cruel, and that is also true."

She turned on her heel, walking in the opposite direction. "How did you find me?"

He hurried to catch her. "Meg."

She gave up an irritated laugh. "Of course!"

"Please don't be angry at her," he said, following her. "She didn't force me to come here. I'm here because I want to be, and for no other reason!"

"You told me that I had used you, didn't love you, and then you slammed a door in my face!"

"I was a fool! An angry fool! What else do you want me to say?"

She stopped, looking at him with those large doe-like eyes. "Why are you here Max?"

He opened a hand to her, tense with hope. "I'm here because I'm still in love with you."

"It only took you two years to realize that," she scoffed, shaking her head. "I'm done with this, with you, with Erik, and anything to do with my past! All I want now is to be left in peace." She began walking away.

He grabbed hold of her arm. "Christine, please. Give me one last chance. That's all I ask!"

She pulled her arm away, looking him in the eye. "Then you're asking for too much. Goodbye Max."

He remained locked on the bridge, watching her walk away until she disappeared completely from view. So this was it. It was truly over.

* * *

The ship had finally pulled out from the dock. While his fellow passengers remained on deck to shout and wave their last goodbyes to their families, he locked himself in his stateroom. He spent the hours after Christine had left him wandering through the park, trying to find some consolation. When that option was exhausted, he returned to his suite at the hotel and took advantage of the complimentary bottle of _Veuve Clicquot_. He did wake up with a headache, but also with a more realistic view of his situation. She had made her decision and moved on with her life. He wouldn't fault her for it. At least now he had his answer. Now, life would be wide open. He would return to Sweden, fulfill all his obligations, and then return to San Juan. He already knew the home he wanted outside the city. An 18th century villa with large windows and wrought iron balconies overlooking the beach. It was paradise. A place where he could be inspired to work again. Perhaps he would meet another woman. Start a family. Anything could happen. Anything was possible.

Laying back on his bed, he felt an odd sense of peace wash over him.

 _Goodbye New York. I won't miss you._

* * *

Soft, but persistent knocking pulled him out of sleep. He was still fully dressed, and his trunk still unopened. The knocking continued as he pushed himself out of bed and to his feet.

"One moment, please," he shouted, thrusting a hand through his hair. It was likely one of the staff with his dinner. But, when he opened the door, he wondered if he was awake at all.

Christine stood there, wrapped in a woolen coat, her hair loose around her shoulders. He saw the fear and uncertainty in her eyes as she looked up at him. "May I come in?"

He stared at her, still uncertain if this was real. "What are you doing here?"

She pushed past him and he shut the door. For a long moment, she stared at him, nervously clutching the small velvet purse in her hands.

"Is it too late?"

He narrowed his eyes in confusion. "What? Christine? I don't understand what you're doing here?"

She gave up a nervous laugh. "Neither do I. After I left you yesterday, I was certain that I was done with us, and that my life in New York was enough. I could wake up every day and know what to expect. There was no phantom or secrets or anything else to complicate my life. I went to bed last night telling myself that I was content. But, when I woke up this morning I just felt empty. I felt scared that I had stupidly given up the one person in this world who I really loved."

He reached for hand. "You don't need to say anything more."

"I do," she insisted. "I need for you to listen. I was drawn to you at first because of your resemblance to Erik. But, then I began to get to know you. You were so passionate about everything, and above all else you were so kind. So good at heart. You never made me feel like I had to perform or be someone else for you. I could simply, for the first time since my father died, be myself. Truly myself. When I look at you, I no longer see Erik or those stupid dreams I had when I was sixteen. I only see you. You are the man I love. I've never loved anyone the way I love you, and I know that I never will again."

He shut his eyes as her words spun around in his head. He had wasted two years of both their lives steeping in his pride. It made his words to her on the bridge seem pathetic and empty. He felt the insistent squeezing of her hand calling him back to her.

"Please, say something," she whispered.

He opened his eyes to look at her. "Everything you said, is exactly how I feel about you. I never felt like anyone really saw me until I met you. I was either hidden under my title or behind one of my sculptures. It seemed that's all anyone ever really wanted me for. But, with you it felt so different. That's why I think I was so quick to push you away that day. I immediately assumed that I had been a fool and that you only wanted me for some other reason. And not just myself. Now, I know how stupid I was. Can you forgive me for how I treated you?"

She was silent, her eyes searching his face as if she were still uncertain. Then a smile slowly rolled across her lips. "It will take time, but I think it's possible."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Meg walked into their bedroom, shutting the door behind her with a smile of relief. Laughing, Erik pulled the heavy blanket back to welcome her to bed. "I'm assuming our demanding little Monsieur is finally asleep."

"Yes," she sighed, reaching into the pocket of her robe. "I have something for you. It came today in the post." Slipping into bed, she handed him the letter.

The sight of Max's handwriting brought a smile to him. "So, Von Fersen has finally decided to reappear."

Meg moved in closer as he opened the envelope. "I thought about him the other day. It's been months since his visit and no word."

"Shall I read it aloud or to myself," he teased.

"No, I'm not at all interested in what has been happening in your brother's life," she deadpanned.

"Very well then." He began reading aloud.

 _Erik,_

 _I apologize for the very long absence. But, life has been quite busy for me since I left you and Meg. I returned to Sweden, but sadly not in time to be with my mother before she passed away. After taking care of the difficult obligations, I sold all of my properties and what was left of my works. It all gained me enough to live the rest of my life in comfort. I did keep all of our father's personal belongings. I will send you an inventory and you may have anything you want. I know he would have wanted that._

 _Aside from the difficulties, I have news that will be of interest to both you and Meg. Especially Meg, because without her subtle push it would likely never have happened._

Erik paused, eying her. "What did you do this time?"

Meg replied with a cryptic smile. "I'll tell you about it later. Keep reading."

Erik shook his head, brow playfully cocked. "You are nothing, but trouble."

"Yes," she laughed. "Now finish the damn thing!"

Grinning, he continued on.

 _Christine and I are married! First, we had a simple ceremony on the ship that took us from New York to Southampton. Though it wasn't legally recognized, the Captain indulged us. After my mother's funeral we were properly wed in the small church where Christine's mother and father were married. We had our friends there from the Opéra and the university, but it was incomplete. We both agreed that we would have wanted both you and Meg there above anyone else. I mean that sincerely, and I know Christine does as well._

 _I am writing this from our new home in Puerto Rico. It's only a short boat ride from New Orleans, and we are both looking forward to the day when we can all meet again. Christmas in San Juan we are told is truly unlike anywhere else. Consider it. Below you will see a brief postscript from Christine. I'm looking forward to hearing from you, and resuming our correspondence._

 _MVF_

At the bottom of the page in neat, delicate script was the note:

 _Erik,_

 _Now we can both truly say that we are, at last, happy._

 _Christine_

Erik paused. Taking in her words he felt nothing, but gratitude. Being able to see her name and not feel tormented was a gift that he never thought he would never receive in this life. The tie that once bound them was now completely cut, and he was glad for it. Glancing over at Meg, memories of their years together turned through his mind like a kaleidoscope; that wretched night when they left Paris together, the first time he kissed her and all the rest of the joys and the lows. And for the first time, he could say, without reservation, that he wouldn't change any of it. It all seemed as if it were meant to be. Yes, the former phantom of the opera was finally, and at last, happy.

THE END


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